Epilogue
“The Firstborn Prince finds a princess?”—Headline from TRZ
The meeting earlier had gone well, and the trust he’d set up for Bastien and his family had gone through. The kid was back in remission, and Foster had gotten his ass kicked during a zombie-killing session. Everything was going according to plan, except for the fact that Natalie wasn’t available when he’d gotten back home.
Staring out the window, Foster Boyd glanced at the woman in question as she took yet another call. It seemed like her phone was ringing off the hook since he’d returned to the penthouse, and he was kind of getting annoyed.
Yes, it was great and all that her career had taken such a turn when the whole situation was revealed, and yes, it was even better that he’d called in a favor from his old pal Camden James…who apparently knew Aiden Kelley and his ex Margo Welles, and was more than happy to put the word out that Natalie was not only a stellar image consultant, but literally the very best at what she did. But all of that aside, he’d had plans for the day, and her working all afternoon wasn’t among them.
He’d hoped—perhaps naively, considering—to restrain her against this very same floor-to-ceiling window, so that her breasts were pressed to the cold glass while he slowly tormented her from behind. Being in the tallest building in the city and in the penthouse suite, after all, wasn’t an opportunity to be wasted. Then, when she was limp with pleasure and begging him for her release, he wanted to take her down from the window. While her body was still quaking from the orgasm—or two?—he’d given her, he hoped to carry her to the bed where he’d kiss her and toy with her elegant folds until she was twitching on his fingers, desperate in her need for him. Only then would he satisfy them both by thrusting between her legs, watching her gorgeous face as it lay on her red-gold mermaid locks. The fire of them framing her face on the white pillows as she mewled out her release…
Adjusting himself, he had to admit it was one of his better plans. Once they were both sated, he could ask her the question he’d been working up the guts to ask. The one involving that little ring box in the bedside drawer next to the box of condoms and hidden under the lube.
But she wasn’t cooperating, only holding a single finger up to make him wait, as she took call after call.
He wasn’t a patient man. “Go lay down, Buffy,” he ordered the dog. She obeyed, and if dogs could roll their eyes, he was sure she would. He figured she knew what was coming next, by this point, when he told her to go lay down…
He smiled, rubbing his hands together. Yeah, he was done waiting for her to finish working. “Natalie,” he said.
She ignored him.
“Natalie, look at me.”
She didn’t, instead holding a paper up at him. He took it from her fingers when she shook it at him impatiently. Scanning it, he realized it was a modified version of the rules she’d given him when he first hired her as an image consultant. The paper read:
Natalie’s rules for Foster Boyd, v2 – Updated
Rule #1: Trust me. Just that. I love you, and I would never intentionally lead you astray. Even when you tie me up and torture me with ice cubes. Who even does that…?
Rule #2: Do not try to be sneaky. Bad things happen when you try to be sneaky. To be blunt, you suck at it. You’re better off just going into a situation and pretending confidence than trying to pretend you’re a ninja. You’re over six feet tall, a bazillionaire, and everyone has watched you grow up via television and magazine spreads. Dude, everyone knows who you are. We even know where that one birthmark is on your left ass cheek. It’s kinda cute, looks like a heart, but you see my point here. This does not a ninja make, understood?
Rule #3: Connor is not the enemy. Sometimes he makes good sense.
Rule #4: You think private rooms in public places are private, which is hilarious. Is there waitstaff? Other help present? This is not privacy, it is the very expensive illusion of privacy. Stop holding private meetings in insecure public locations.
Rule #5: It is not funny when you tell people at a public venue that Buffy is a bomb-sniffing dog or a drug sniffer. This is the stuff I was talking about. You’re feeding the press. Knock that shit off, or I swear to god, I’ll buy you a Chihuahua. Good luck looking manly with a Chihuahua. Speaking of which, I want a cat.
Rule #6: Stop buying me stuff! For god’s sake, man, I know you own like fifty houses, but I do not need a mountain of muffins every time you make me mad. Save your money and instead…just say you’re sorry like a normal person. Then do that thing with your tongue. We’ll both be happier for it.
Rule #7: Avoid making bets or offering people deals without running it past legal first. You have a tendency to say things in a way… You’re horrible at it. And once you’re committed to one of your harebrained plans, not only do you not listen to reason, you have this weird ability to make people agree to them. The press? They’re counting on this particular weakness of yours. I know, Boyds do not have weaknesses, but call it whatever you like, it’s a problem. Do not make bets or proposals without running them past legal. Ever.
Rule #8: The media has long made bank off the fact that you’re a ladies’ man. Your love of the fairer sex is more well documented than the Cold War. Avoid kissing people. Just, all people. I do not even want to put a gender on it, because I’m sure you’d see that as a loophole. Stick to cute puppies and babies. Maybe not even babies. Stick to animals, okay? I know what you’re thinking—it isn’t like that! Whatever, new rule. Kiss no one, not even cute puppies, unless you run it past me first. Your lips are dangerous. And mine…
Smiling to himself, Boyd set the list back on the desk. Yes, he was hers, but that particular arrangement meant that she, in turn, was his. And he was about sick of her not being his right then when he had a plan in mind.
“Natalie,” he repeated.
She finally glanced at him, eyes going wide when she took in the fact that he’d stripped and was standing naked next to her. When she licked her lips slowly, he saw the interest kindling in her too-blue gaze.
“Hey, Harp,” she said. “I gotta go. Yeah, you know how he is. Completely bossy.” She ended the call and leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers.
“You know how this goes,” she told him. “I gave you the rules. Do you plan to listen to them and follow them to the best of your ability?”
“No,” he answered without a qualm. “My girlfriend told me that rules are made to be broken.”
She shook her head sadly. “Look, Foster, if you don’t follow the rules, I just can’t help you.”
He dragged her to her feet, burying his fingers in her untamed hair. “Good. Let me help you…out of these clothes. I have a little game in mind.”
“I’m getting tied up, aren’t I?” she asked, her fingers stroking his chest gently as she rubbed her nose against his. “You’re tying me up and making me pay for ignoring you.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Against the window,” he added, just in case she was curious about that part of his plan.
“The window? How?” Her eyes widened, but not in shock. If he knew his girl, the idea turned her on. “What if someone sees?”
“Rule number three in the modified list says I need to do what makes me happy. Stretching you against the glass while I lick your sweet pussy will make me very, very happy. I want you grunting into the glass, panting, and rubbing your—”
“I get the point,” she said, rubbing up against him and biting his collarbone.
“Not yet, but I’ll give that to you later. In the bed,” he promised.
“I love you,” she whispered, her lips centimeters from his own.
“Love you, too, my devious lover. Now, take off your clothes and shove your breasts against that cold glass like a good girl.”
Her smile promised forever, and he was going to take her at her word.
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